It's hard to say which is more painful: listening to their songs in the grocery store, or reading the fanfic of their crazed fans.
We've got more ghosts, a pair of plastic pants, baby monkeys, and ah... Terry Schiavo?
Did I mention this would be painful?
The dial continues to rotate, achingly slow until it lands on 102.7, and an all-too familiar voice washes through the room. In alarm, Clay slams back into the counter.
“Hey! Thanks for tuning into KIIS FM; this is Ryan Seacrest,” the cheerful voice announces on the radio.
Clay’s chest tightens, knuckles clenching around the sleek marble countertop. It sounds so real, so authentic: the way Ryan accents the wrong words with such enthusiasm.
“We’re going to play an oldie from my buddy Clay Aiken: ‘This is the Night.’”
It sounds too real, but Clay knows. He was there. Ryan’s dead...
Behind him something splashes in the soapy water, and he spins around, his head twisting faster than his body can keep up with. It’s a hand connected to an arm connected to a shoulder, reaching into the sink for the sponge. Another warm hand rests on the small of his back and he can hear and feel the hot breath against his neck.
“Hey,” Ryan says smiling. He dons a black t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, his hair artfully tousled because it was the first thing he did the morning he had died.
Clay shifts awkwardly around until he’s facing the ghost, Ryan’s hand now pressed gently against his chest. It’s been three years since he’s seen him, but God does he look real. He feels warm, alive. “You’re…” he mumbles. “You’re not… here. This is –”
“It’s whatever you think it is,” Ryan says, smiling gently. It’s a real smile – not one that’s patented pure smarm for television. This smile is softer around the edges of his eyes where crow’s feet gather, where his lips split because they’re chapped and the skin stretching across arching cheekbones are smattered with the beginnings of a beard. Clay reaches out, strokes the scratchy texture of his face with uncertainty, drawing his fingers down the outline of Ryan’s mouth before settling on the cool skin of his throat. He can’t find a pulse, no fluttering or solid rhythm. Behind him the twinkling piano of his song goes silent and the radio turns to static...
Twenty minutes later, Josh descended the stairs and saw Sabrina in tears. She was sitting on the coffee table, facing the stereo. He could make out the very end of his version of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” coming out of the speakers.
“Bri?” She stood quickly, hastily dried her eyes and turned off the stereo. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. ‘Jesu Joy’ is one of my favorite songs and…my God, Josh, your voice…” He blushed as he gently wiped her tears away. “So, is this happy crying?”
“Something like that.” Something forever changed in Josh when she looked at him just then. Those eyes would be the death of him...
Back To Bedlam With A Carrot In His Pocket
[Ed. Note: I think this next piece of fanfic was actually written by a Nigerian spammer. It's credited to "Africans," begins as a rant on how watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer will make a man out of a boy, has a segment with Dr. House that includes a posted picture of Hilter with the caption "Guest Starring Nathan Lane," and let's just say there's more to James Blunt's relationship with Terry Schiavo than what I could bring myself to post here. And you know if I'm exercising some sort of restraint, that shit's got to be pretty scary.]
Inexplicably popular singer “song” writer, James Blunt was known for his generosity, and acts of charity. He had sung to save Tigers, AIDS orphans, a blind gibbon baby, misunderstood people’s hero Tony Yengeni, and last but not least, another 1000 chincillas fated to die for Donald Trump’s replacement hair. He had been called by his manager, and asked whether he would be willing to sing by the bedside of one Terry Schiavo, who had been pronounced clinically brain-dead. There was very little hope of actually waking Mrs Schiavo, but it would be a good PR exercise, and bring something positive into the sad lives of her parents...
By Cassie Morgan
Jon shrugged off his denim jacket, letting it slide off his shoulders and fall to the floor. One backwards glance down and he forgot about it, winding a soft white towel around his shoulders, rubbing his sweat-soaked hair with another. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and he laughed out loud at nothing in particular, rolling his neck, popping it with a satisfied sigh.
He grimaced as he walked towards his dressing room, his pants sticking to his legs with each step. He scowled down at them; as much as the tight gold was a crowd pleaser, they weren't exactly the most practical item of clothing he had ever worn. He gripped the cord holding them up and was about to unlace them, when Richie's hands slid around his hips. Jon tilted his head and smiled, leaning back against him.
"Leave them on," Richie requested softly...
[Okay, so like, this WAS a story about me and Wes Borland from Limp Bizkit, but like, I just found out he's MARRIED! His wife Heather is SUCH a BITCH! I hate her so much! She's a total skank face. I hope she dies! So, like, I don't like him anymore, so this story's about Angel now, because David Boreanaz is totally hot, and he's divorced and all, so there's hope for me!]
Morning. I stretched languidly and smiled, thinking of the night before. Wes and I had saved a bunch of baby monkeys from animal experiments, then brought them back to the jungle where they belonged, then he wrote a song for me, and then we made love until the moon came up. Just another wonderful night with my wonderful man...
And if you didn't hate me enough already, here are links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 of this weekly exercise in bad taste. Yummo!